25 Days of Ficmas
by Bells23552
Summary: I stumbled upon a post with 25 prompts all relating to Christmas and one's OTP. I decided to do so with Johnlock. So please enjoy fluff fluffy fluff fluff drabbles about our favorite Baker Street boys. Now with new complete flavor!
1. Chapter 1

Mistletoe

John was on a mission. This was his and Sherlock's first Christmas _together_ and he was sure to make it better than the last. Decidedly an easy task, being that last year was nothing to smile about. It was the perfect moment to strike; Sherlock was on a post-case high and would consent to anything. Mostly.

"John what on Earth are you doing?" Sherlock says, as he watches John hang multicoloured lights on the mantel. John doesn't respond, obviously trying to delay the inevitable admittance of his actions. Sherlock huffs at being ignored and sits down in his chair with obvious irritation. After placing a Santa hat on top of the skull, John steps back and admires his work. He turns to look at Sherlock for some small sign of approval but is met with a half-hearted glare.

"Oh, come off it. It's nearly Christmas!" John said, walking into the kitchen to retrieve more decorations from the box.

"Please John, it's hardly dull. All the hype for a week of torturous shopping, uncomfortable family visits, even more unsettling dinners, and then the giving and receiving of gifts that more than likely will end up broken, lost, or resold within two months." Sherlock says, his irritation becoming more evident.

"Just," John sighs, "just let's try to enjoy it?" Sherlock turns to return a scathing remark, but is puzzled by what John's doing. He saw the doctor standing on the tips of his feet, reaching towards the doorway of the kitchen, but struggling.

"What—"Sherlock starts, but is interrupted by John's cry of triumph as the sprig of greenery just barely sticks to the top of the doorway.

"Don't tell me you don't know what mistletoe is." John says, quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock. He watches as the consulting detective saunters over and inspects the plant.

"Mistletoe, Phoradendron Flavescens, a hemiparasite. When mixed to drink, it can improve blood circulation and also helps internal bleeding." Sherlock recites from memory. John laughs and Sherlock frowns.

"Was I wrong?" Sherlock asks

"Ah, no I don't think so." John says, smothering a grin.

"Then what?" Sherlock says, trying to remember more about the plant.

While Sherlock is thoroughly distracted in his Mind Palace, John grabs him by the shoulders and brings him down for a kiss. Sherlock is surprised, but finally relaxes and pulls John closer. Before it can transcend into anything more intimate, John pulls back.

"Do you remember now?" John asks with a small smile.

"It's coming back to me." Sherlock smiles and pulls John back in.


	2. Chapter 2

Hot Chocolate

It had been a long day for Sherlock. The evidence at the crime scene shouted at him, but he couldn't put it together. Every time he thought he was close to the answer, another piece of evidence conflicted with it. Sherlock was in a category four sulk by the time John returned from the shop.

"I'm back." John says while walking directly into the kitchen to deposit the groceries.

"Obviously." Sherlock mumbles to himself.

Unsettled because of the quiet, John looks around the corner into the living area and had to refrain from laughing. Sherlock looked especially helpless as he lay face down in the couch, his dressing gown wrinkled from his day of restlessness. This situation requires something stronger than tea, John decides.

After thinking himself into another dead end, Sherlock sighs loudly and pushes himself up off the couch. He expected John to be in his chair, booting up his laptop and nursing a cup of tea. He frowned and listened to the noises coming from the kitchen. Ah, he was making it currently. Behind schedule due to the shopping. Sherlock mentally scolded himself for not noticing faster.

Sherlock sighed again and relaxed back into the couch. He would need to resort to the patches soon. This was setting up to be a two, if not three, patch problem. Before he could entertain that idea further, John entered the living area holding two steaming mugs of. Not tea? Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose.

"Don't hurt yourself thinking, it's just some hot chocolate." John said, smiling as he lifted Sherlock's legs and sat down. As Sherlock sat up, John handed him a hot mug of the deep brown liquid. The steam curled up and filled Sherlock's nose with a rich smell of cocoa. He looked up at John who was tentatively taking a sip from his own mug. Sherlock did the same, flinching at the heat, but relishing the sensation as the sweet, smooth beverage covered his tongue.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, into his mug.

John hummed in acknowledgement, smothering his grin with another sip from his drink. Sherlock put his finished drink aside and shifted a bit closer to John. While they held a strong affection for each other, it was always rare that Sherlock initiate contact. He was always so unsure about his feelings, and John's feelings for him. The two are still learning from each other, figuring out what works and what doesn't. It was a game of chess that both were hesitant, but eager to play.

Sherlock slowly fixated himself next to John. He was stiff and awkward, but as soon as John put his arm around Sherlock, they fit together perfectly. In that moment, no case mattered right now. All that existed was them and two mugs of warm hot chocolate.


	3. Chapter 3

Snow

It was midday, Sherlock and John were walking home from a crime scene that Sherlock had dubbed as "uninteresting and simple" and that "even a child could solve it". John was upset due to Sherlock quite literally dragging him from the flat to go, making them forget their wallets. The end result was an irritated Sherlock and a seething John.

To make matters worse, it began to snow on their journey back to 221b. Sherlock frowned up at the sky as snowflakes fell upon the two. John gazed about the busy street and cherished the fresh snow before it was to be tainted by the pollution from cars. He smiled to himself and the tension left his body as he continued to walk. Sherlock's brow was still creased as he drew his collar up.

"Don't like the snow?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock who was getting steadily covered in the white flakes.

"It's cold and wet, both things that are often found undesirable at the same time." Sherlock replied simply.

"But it's beautiful." John retorted.

"I fail to see why frozen water is beautiful." Sherlock said, glancing down at John. The snow in his hair was less evident than in Sherlock's, but the few that had stuck to John's eyelashes were, in a sense, charming. Perhaps, he could see what John meant. John met Sherlock's eyes and shrugged. They fell back into a companionable silence.

As they continued walking the snow continued to fall, increasing in amount by the minute. The world around them was getting covered in a pure white blanket. Aside from the stray car passing by them every moment or so, it was peaceful. It was nice.

Sherlock looked down at John again, _his John_, he thought. Maybe the snow and Christmas spirit was getting to him, or maybe John's influence was, but Sherlock felt content. _No, _Sherlock thought_, not content. Happy. I feel happy._ Sherlock was woken from his epiphany by the feeling of John's fingers lacing through his own. It no longer felt cold, Sherlock no longer felt the snow cling to his skin and melt. All he felt was John's hand in his. The small act of affection spoke volumes, but at the same time, Sherlock couldn't quite figure it out.

John took no notice to Sherlock staring down at where their hands met. He knew Sherlock's mind was whirring with every single thing that this could have possibly meant. The man may be a genius, but when it came to their relationship he acted like an infant.

"It means, I love you, okay?" John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand in his.

"Okay." Sherlock said quietly.

The snow kept falling, and they kept walking. John had completely forgotten all the bad of the day, and his anger seemed to melt away with each snowflake that made contact on his skin. Before getting lost in his thoughts again, John grinned stupidly as Sherlock tapped out _I love you too_ in Morse code on his hand. The snow continued to fall around them, but neither of the two felt cold.


	4. Chapter 4

Candy Canes

John woke up from his nap to the sharp smell of peppermint in the flat. He sat up, looking around for the source of the scent. Sherlock's chair was empty, but the indent his body left was fresh. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood to stretch. He really shouldn't fall asleep when Sherlock is busy thinking about a case.

"Sherlock?" John called out, but received no answer.

He walked into the kitchen to see if the elusive consulting detective was experimenting, but again, there was no sign of the man. Just some beakers filled with red tinted liquid. Sighing, John pulled out his mobile and texted Sherlock.

**Where are you? –JW**

His phone went off a minute later.

** BUSY – SH**

** Okay, busy where?—JW**

John waited a bit, and when no reply came in five minutes he assumed that Sherlock was busy with the case. He sighed again, something fairly often when one was dealing with Sherlock. Instead of sulking, John went about his usual business. He got some cleaning done and even made a small meal for when Sherlock returned. John relaxed into his chair with his laptop, ready to type up the progress on the case when the door downstairs slammed. Excited footsteps ran up the steps and Sherlock stormed into the flat with a look of triumph.

"Candy canes, John!" He shouted, hanging his coat up and nearly bounced about the flat, changing into his dressing gown.

"I take it you solved it, then." John said, putting his laptop down to talk to Sherlock without distraction. He watched with amusement as Sherlock inhaled his dinner and flopped onto the sofa. The lanky man was sprawled out along the entirety of it, a look of accomplishment gracing his face.

"It was quite extraordinary. At first I was confused because the stab wounds resembled no knives that I have come across, not to mention the smell of the body. Not the usual decomposing corpse smell, you remember," Sherlock paused and John nodded, Sherlock took a breath and resumed, "the smell of peppermint hung about the room and initially I didn't make the connection but then I remembered the season and candy canes, john! The murder weapon was a candy cane! Sharpened by the act of sucking on it until a sharp point is made!"

"I didn't think they could get that sharp." John said, picking up his laptop to finish typing the case.

"It was extraordinary." Sherlock sighed dreamily.

"Er, Sherlock"

"A bit not good?"

John nodded, Sherlock shrugged. Sherlock sagged into the couch and closed his eyes. The excitement of the case was giving way to his mortal needs. John smiled as he listened to Sherlock's breathing even out, until he was completely asleep.

After he publishes the case (titled Peppermint Impalement), John stands up from his chair and goes to start the kettle for when Sherlock wakes. Before he does so, he drops a blanket onto Sherlock.

"You're a madman, Sherlock Holmes." John says, kissing him lightly on the forehead.


	5. Chapter 5

Christmas Tree

"It's not going to fit, Sherlock" John grunted.

"Yes it will, I measured properly." Sherlock sighed, watching John struggle.

"Well you're not doing much to help the situation!"

"This was your idea."

"You agreed to it."

"Only because you asked when we were busy ha-" Sherlock started, but was interrupted by John stumbling forward after the Christmas tree unhooked itself from the doorframe. In the stupor, John dropped the trunk and the entire thing fell to the ground with a loud thump.

"Sod off." John grumbled and stomped into the flat to drag it in completely, Sherlock looked much too amused. He had enjoyed seeing John lug the smallish evergreen up the stairs, the muscles in John's arms flexing as carried the tree. It was a good time.

A half-hour and several choice swear words later, the Christmas tree stood tall and proud in its stand. John took a step back to appreciate his handiwork. All that was left now was the decorations.

"Are you going to be lazy again and not help?" John called to Sherlock, who was busy scowling at his laptop.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, stared at the Christmas tree, and looked at John.

"Help with what?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head a bit. John thought he was joking, but they remained silent, staring at each other.

"You've never decorated a Christmas tree?" John asked incredulously.

"Mummy never let me touch the ornaments." Sherlock sneered.

"Well, come here, help me." John gestured for Sherlock to come closer. The consulting detective warily made his way over to the box of ornaments that John had placed near the tree.

"Just pick one," John demonstrated, picking up a silver orb, "and place it anywhere you want. I've already strung the lights." John carefully placed the ornament onto a branch, and stood back.

Sherlock dug into the box and pulled out a sphere covered in small reindeer, "These are rather ridiculous." Sherlock said, but nevertheless, he hung it. A small smile threatened to appear on his face, but Sherlock refrained himself.

"You're allowed to enjoy doing this." John smirked, placing another decoration on the tree. Sherlock half-heartedly frowned at John, but continued his task.

A little later, John glanced over at Sherlock and nearly laughed at the look of extreme concentration that adorned the man's face. He placed each ornament after deeply contemplating the correct distance from others. Despite himself, John let out a small chuckle. Thankfully, the consulting detective only glared at him for a second, obviously hearing the love in the laugh.

The two finished decorating and stood back to admire their work. Sherlock had done well, if not a bit too organized. John stepped forward and plugged in the lights. It seems that Sherlock had anticipated the reflections from the light, because he organized the ornaments in a way that made the tree shine three times brighter.

"It's really quite lovely." Sherlock said, almost entranced by the tree.

"Yeah." John said simply.

"For never decorating a tree before, you did alright." John teased.

"Please John, if I hadn't helped the top of the tree would be completely bare." Sherlock scoffed.

John began a retort, but was silenced by Sherlock's lips. He pulled Sherlock in closer, and they stood there together with the Christmas tree showering them in a warm light.


	6. Chapter 6

Angel

It had only been a few hours after decorating the tree, but they had yet to decide on a topper. Sherlock was adamant about putting the skull on top; however, John was having none of it.

"Sherlock, I have a perfectly good topper, one that's been given to me by my mum." John said, pulling a delicate angel statue from the box. Sherlock nearly reeled at the sight of it.

"Oh please, don't tell me you're allergic to symbols of faith." John sighed, putting the angel down on the table. Sherlock stared at it with his calculating glare. John rolled his eyes and went to go pack up the empty ornament boxes and retrieve the step stool.

John walked back up the steps of 221b fifteen minutes later, and Sherlock was still staring intently at the angel.

"Okay Sherlock, this is odd behavior even for you." John said, stepping in between Sherlock and the statue. Sherlock titled his head up to look at John and sighed.

"You will laugh." Sherlock said quietly.

"No I won't," comforted John, pulling his chair closer to Sherlock's.

Sherlock took a deep breath, "When I was young, around age four, it was Christmas and we—Mycroft and I—had just finished watching Mummy decorate the tree. You remember how we were not allowed to assist in the decorating due to the priceless ornaments, correct? Well, Mummy always let Mycroft put the topper on, as a sort of tradition. Being four years old and severely ahead in maturity, Mummy had decided to let me put it on. Mycroft hated that, so before I got a chance to, he told me that it was a real angel. Of course, now that I think about it, it was absurd, but I was only four John!" Sherlock's voice went up a bit at the end there, he was obviously getting more and more distressed. John took Sherlock's hands in his.

"Go on." John smiled softly.

Sherlock looked skeptical, but continued after taking a deep breath, "Mycroft told me that the angel was real and that by putting it on the tree I was murdering it. Murdering a poor defenseless angel all for the entertainment of our family!" Sherlock was speaking nearly too fast for John to follow, "Mycroft told me I was killing it and then when Father picked me up to put the topper on I threw a tantrum and dropped it. Thankfully it didn't shatter but…" Sherlock's gaze drifted off to stare at the angel still sitting on the table.

John sat in his chair, processing the information. He felt laughter bubbling up in his chest. He tightened his lips, but thinking of a wild-haired Sherlock screaming in his Father's grip because of an angel statue…He began to laugh. The laughter got the best of him and soon John was red in the face, tears threatening to pool over. Sherlock looked livid.

"You said you wouldn't laugh!" Sherlock stomped, but seeing John laugh like this. He couldn't remain totally upset. Sherlock could see the humor in it, but it made the situation no less traumatic, he remained stoic. John quieted down and wiped at his eye.

"Sorry." John coughed, not looking very apologetic at all.

"You're not." Sherlock smirked.

"You're right."

"Idiot."

"Rude"

"Immature."

"Angel killer." John barked out, throwing himself back into a fit of chuckles.

Sherlock couldn't help himself this time, he laughed along with John. They were soon in a state of discord, their faces red as they recalled the story over and over again in their minds. In the end, the skull did end up the topper on the Christmas tree, but the angel figurine gained a permanent spot on the mantel.

* * *

**I feel the need to explain that, I didn't come up with Sherlock's traumatic experience. It actually happened to me. It was the best/worst moment of my life, and also I couldn't think of anything else to do with the prompt.**

**Hope you liked it! **

**Much love,**

**Bells**


	7. Chapter 7

Pie

John returned home from work, tired and ready to curl up with Sherlock and watch crap telly. As soon as he crossed the threshold of 221b; however, he knew that that would not be the case. In his many experiences with one certain consulting detective, John was prepared for nearly every type of body part to be strewn about the flat. Nothing would have prepared him though, for…

"Pies?" John asks to the empty—er—pie filled living room. Every surface was covered in a different type of pie. Blueberry, cherry, pumpkin, chocolate, cinnamon apple, flavors John didn't even recognize and one very questionable green one.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, only hearing the scuffle of feet and the slam of the door. So he was hiding now? Did he think John would be upset?

Shaking his head, John walked into the kitchen and was met with, not unsurprisingly, a mess. He rubbed at his eyes. Bowls of dough and empty cans of filling were _everywhere. _John couldn't fathom what possible reason Sherlock would have for making so much damn pie.

John could hear Sherlock shuffling into the kitchen. Before he could turn around, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and rested his head on John's shoulder.

"John. I made pie." Sherlock mumbled into John's neck.

"No, Sherlock, you made a bakery." John chuckled.

"You said you wanted pie and that because of the Christmas season it was hard to find fresh pies in the store and so I figured baking was simple chemistry and…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Sherlock," John turned around to face the guilty party, "why did you make so many?"

"I didn't know what kind you liked." Sherlock sighed, looking at the bowl of leftover dough with a newfound interest.

"You're an idiot." John smiled, pulling Sherlock down for a quick kiss.

"So…" Sherlock began pulling John towards the bedroom.

"Ah, no. I have some pies to give away, and you have a kitchen to clean."

"But John!"

"Get to cleaning. We have family coming soon. Good thing we have something to serve them." John laughed to himself.

Sherlock huffed, and went to tossing the bowls in the sink with obvious disdain. John smiled at the madman and took a bite of the nearest pie. Blackberry? Where did he even get blackberry out of season? John smiled, each pie was just a way of Sherlock saying how much he cared.

"That's why there are so many, John." Sherlock said, observing John from the kitchen.

* * *

**Ahaha...sorry this one was so lame! I just really was grasping at straws for this prompt. Hope you liked it :]!**

**Much love!**


	8. Chapter 8

Tinsel

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest wall. The Christmas music playing lightly in the background was old and annoying. John and Sherlock were hosting a small Christmas get together and Sherlock was not pleased one small ounce.

"John, why do I have to be here?" Sherlock grumbled into John's ear as he was refilling his drink in the kitchen.

"One, you live here and secondly, it's almost Christmas! Enjoy yourself, just a bit…please?" John said, pulling Sherlock down for a quick kiss. Sherlock relented, and kissed back. In an act of protest, he stole John's drink and sauntered away. John let out a small laugh, and followed him back into the party.

As the night progressed, Sherlock admittedly began to enjoy himself. He sat back, nursing his drink. He watched his small group of friends chatting amicably and smiled. Sherlock smiled to himself as he heard John laugh at something Lestrade had said. Perhaps tonight hadn't been a total waste after all.

It was nearing midnight and the party had gotten only a small…tiny bit…out of control.

"Gah!" Yelled Lestrade as he slammed his third shot of whiskey down.

"You are WEAK Les-Lestrade." Sherlock slurred, as he poured another one for himself.

"OH yeah?" Lestrade laughed, "What's my first name?"

Sherlock's eyes went out of focus as he tried to remember.

"C'mon Greg, he couldn't remember if he was sober." John laughed, subtly removing the shots from the table. That was enough for the night, John thought. He had kept in the right state of mind, knowing Sherlock would start to lose it once Lestrade had said he bet fifty quid that Sherlock couldn't hold his alcohol. The fact that Sherlock was now letting Lestrade decorate him like a Christmas tree only ensured that.

They were both laughing, howling until both Sherlock and Lestrade sported red faces. Sherlock had even fallen back into John's chair.

"John! JOhn." Lestrade called, a bit too loudly.

"I'm right here, Greg." John said.

"Help me finish." Lestrade grinned, holding up a small package of silver tinsel.

"I think I should help you home instead." John said, starting to guide the inebriated detective out of the flat.

"Be in the spirit of Christmas! Scrooge!" Lestrade laughed.

"Fine, but when he kills us, it'll be your fault." John chuckled.

Sherlock's head was pounding, and his ears were ringing. He absolutely loathed alcohol. Sherlock frowned, but even that hurt. He began to move his limbs, but a small crinkling sound surprised him. He opened his eyes slowly, and reeled at the sight. He was covered head to toe in shiny, reflective, tinsel.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, not even caring about the thunder going on behind his eyes.

"Yes, love?" John replied, walking into the living room carrying two cups of tea.

"I will murder you." Sherlock growled.

"It's rather hard to take that seriously, being that you're decorated more than the entire flat." John said, trying to keep a straight face.

Sherlock stood up, only the top layer of the tinsel falling; the static cling had made the rest of it stick. Seeing this, Sherlock glared madly at John, who was now laughing into his hand. Sherlock looked down at himself and back at John. They made eye contact and both began to laugh openly.

"You're an idiot." Sherlock said, climbing into John's lap.

"You're getting your embellishments all over me." John laughed.

"That's the point." Sherlock smiled, brushing tinsel out of his hair and into John's.


	9. Chapter 9

Ice Skating

"This was a terrible idea." John said, gripping onto a nearby tree branch with white knuckles.

"Don't be so dramatic, John." Sherlock smirked, turning and skating backwards. The show-off.

Sherlock's mother had insisted that he and John come and visit for Christmas. Sherlock being himself insisted they go a week before, so they avoided unwanted meetings with vaguely related family members. John had given in, not very much caring either way, as long as he got to meet Sherlock's parents and a chance to see where he had grown up.

They had settled into Sherlock's old room (unsurprisingly full of chemistry equipment), and once the cook (of _course _they had a cook) mentioned that the lake had frozen solid, Sherlock had dragged John down to go skate. John smiled at the childish grin that was stuck on Sherlock's face as they had made their way to the frozen water.

Now John was regretting everything. He had not fallen yet, but if his wanton flailing and cursing was anything to go by, a meeting with the ground would be very soon. Sherlock, however, was gliding about on the ice as if it were second nature. John had thought Sherlock couldn't look any more graceful then he was usually, but John stood corrected.

John watched, a look of wonder on his face, as Sherlock flew across the ice. There was a large smile on the detective's face as he turned, shaving some ice off the top of the lake. His cheeks were flushed from the physical exertion, but there was clear enjoyment in Sherlock's eyes.

"Having fun?" Sherlock said, stopping in front of John.

"Watching you? Yeah. Actually skating? No." John replied, but smiling up at Sherlock nonetheless.

"Let me teach you." Sherlock said, prying John's hands from the tree branch and clasping them in his own.

"Sherlock I am not built for this." John said shakily, as Sherlock pulled him from the edge of the lake.

"Hush." Sherlock smirked, dragging John around, clearly enjoying the look of frustration and mild terror on John's face.

"Git."

"You're doing well."

"You're just pulling me around."

"Exactly."

The pair laughed as Sherlock continued pulling John about. Eventually John nearly got the hang of it, and could almost skate by himself. Sherlock insisted that John continually hold onto his hand or even better have his arm around Sherlock's waist. John chuckled inwardly at Sherlock's not-so-subtle requests, but complied because, who could resist such an offer?

Mummy Holmes watched her boy and his companion skating around slowly on the ice. She smiled to herself as she watched Sherlock pull John closer. It was nice to have her boy home for the season, if not only for a few days. It was better to see him so obviously happy. John had made Sherlock the man she knew he could be. For that, she owed John Watson.


	10. Chapter 10

Frost

John woke up extremely cold. Not only was he alone in the bed, but Sherlock had taken the duvet with him. John sighed and got up and pulled on a jumper. He stifled his shivers as he walked around the flat, looking for Sherlock. Why was it so bloody cold? John had paid the heating and frowned at the thermostat that was clearly on.

He felt a breeze and turned, of course. Sherlock was out on the fire escape, wrapped up in the duvet staring closely at the iron bars. John shrugged and went to put the kettle on to warm up him and the flat.

Sherlock was still staring intently at the bars of the fire escape when John climbed out with two mugs of tea. His silver eyes were fixated on the thin layer of frost that covered each bar. John handed Sherlock the tea and he accepted it silently. Finally he spoke,

"I don't understand." Sherlock said, more to himself than to John.

"What?" John asked, opening the duvet and inserting himself next to Sherlock inside it.

"The frost." Sherlock answered, as if that was a suitable reply.

John sighed, "What about it?"

"It's…pretty." Sherlock said his brow creasing.

"Why is that so confusing?" John queried, raising an eyebrow at his partner.

"We go about day by day, not even noticing the intricate art that goes on, on something trivial no less! Even an inch by inch square of frost is more interesting than most people and it goes unnoticed." Sherlock huffed, taking a sip of tea.

"Well…" John started, "I'm sure some people notice. Even if so, there's a lot of stuff like this in the world. Beauty that isn't appreciated, that is."

Sherlock hummed into his tea. They fell back into silence.

"Why'd you come out here?" John asked, as he finished his tea and set his cup aside.

"My head was too loud. You were asleep." Sherlock replied.

"You could have woken me up."

"I didn't want to. I don't know why, but I didn't want to."

"That means that you care."

"I do."

"Well, good." John said, smiling at Sherlock, who gave him one of his rare genuine smiles in return.

John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder as the two stared at the small, yet infinite beauty of the fresh frost.


	11. Chapter 11

Eggnog

It was a calm evening at 221B, an altogether unsettling idea in the first place. John was watching crap telly and Sherlock…well Sherlock was…what was Sherlock doing? John had assumed that he was working on an experiment but it was much too dormant for that.

John got up from the sofa and peered into the kitchen. Sherlock was frowning at a cookbook. John sighed, he hoped Sherlock wasn't baking again.

"What are you doing?" John asked, leaning against the doorway.

"It was supposed to be a surprise, but given that you ruined it, I am attempting to make a traditional Christmas beverage." Sherlock grumbled.

"And here I thought you weren't into things like that." John grinned, now looking at the recipe.

"You really shouldn't think, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock teased, slapping John's hands away from the ingredients.

"Let me help." John insisted.

"It was supposed to be a surprise." Sherlock pouted.

"Well, now it's not."

"Whose fault is that, John?"

"A certain genius', for being shite at surprises. You're not actually supposed to work on a surprise in the same kitchen I make tea in all the time." John said, wrestling the cookbook out of Sherlock's hands.

"Fine! Fine. You stubborn man." Sighed Sherlock.

John laughed at Sherlock's irritation, and then turned to consult the recipe. Eggnog. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Wrong.

They had been almost done, just the mixing was needed. Sherlock was leaning into John as he tended to the mixture, coaxing the eggs into the spinning blades. He hadn't minded waiting before, but now the process was just getting tedious. Sherlock had decided that it would be alright to just turn the mixer's power up a bit.

Before John could tell him no, Sherlock cranked the power up to 9, and the blades spun violently out of control, in turn, splashing the eggnog everywhere. John had tugged the power cord from the wall and the mixer from hell came to an abrupt stop.

The two stood in silence as they watched the drink drip from the counter onto the floor. John looked up at Sherlock who stared back defiantly.

"I bet it didn't even taste good." Sherlock said, lamely.

John laughed lightly and got a towel to dry them both off. Sherlock looked hesitant, like a child who was waiting for his punishment.

"You aren't mad?" Sherlock asked, watching John dab at his own shirt.

"Of course not, accidents happen, even to the world's only consulting detective." Dismissed John.

Sherlock felt a surge of relief and wrapped John in a damp, sticky embrace. John hugged back and pulled away a bit.

"I love you and all, but this is gross." John laughed at the squelching sound beneath their feet as he stepped away.

"Maybe we should just buy it next time." Suggested Sherlock.

John met Sherlock's eyes, and the eggnog covered men began to laugh.


	12. Chapter 12

Cider

"Now the only problem is that we can't find the body." Lestrade admitted. Watching as Sherlock snooped about the crime scene looking for clues muttering words like, "incompetent" and "fools" under his breath.

"So," John recapped, "A gunshot, large bloodstain in one spot, no body. Perfect."

"There has to be a body." Sherlock said, "The blood pooled over there with no signs of it being smudged by dragging or anything." Sherlock paced back and forth, stopping suddenly. He stomped a foot on the hardwood. All the officers stopped to look at Sherlock, tapping away on the ground.

"Very clever. Amazing." Sherlock said, grinning.

"What?" Lestrade asked, but received no response.

Sherlock took a deep whiff of the air and grinned again. He made his way over to the bloodstain. The dark pool of red was laying half on a rug and half on the hardwood.

"No one moved the rug?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Lestrade.

"No one touched anything in fear you'd harp on them for 'contaminating evidence'" John answered for Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned at the rug. He held out his hand to John, and received a latex glove. Putting it on, Sherlock peeled back the rug from the floor. After removing the rug, he cried out in triumph.

"A trapdoor." Lestrade stood there, dumbfounded.

"Don't worry Lestrade, I almost missed it." Sherlock said, "I would have completely disregarded had I not noticed the hollow sound from under where I was pacing. That and the heavy scent of fermented fruit, it became quite clear."

John looked at Sherlock in clear awe of his deducting skills. Although they had been in each other's company for an extended period of time, John still loved seeing his genius in action.

"Well," Sherlock gestured to the door, "Open it."

John and Sherlock returned to 221b, laughing off the adrenaline high. They had entered the basement uncovered by the trapdoor, only to be met with the murderer dumping the body into a large barrel. A magnificent chase through the neighborhood followed and led to the murderer being caught. The man had been behind the recent disappearances of several adult men.

"That was fun." John said, climbing up the steps behind Sherlock.

"I suppose it was fulfilling." Sherlock quipped, removing his coat.

"Don't lie I saw how bright your face got when you figured it out." John smiled, pulling Sherlock down for a thorough kiss.

"Alright," Sherlock gasped, pulling back for air, "It was a bit more than a tad interesting."

"Yeah," John said, going into the kitchen to put the kettle on, "Although, I'll be a bit put off cider for a while."

"But think of the experiments John! Body preservation in alcoholic cider! Fascinating." Sherlock ruminated.

"If I see a hand in a jar of cider I will throw it away." John yelled from the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed, but began to construct an experiment that tested the preservation of alcoholic cider versus apple cider.


	13. Chapter 13

Peppermint

John unwrapped the last mint and popped it in his mouth. He never understood why, but the coolness of the sweet always helped him overcome writer's block. So John stared at his laptop while rolling the candy around in this mouth.

Sherlock heard John typing away only seconds later. He wondered if the act of occupying one's mouth helped with the thought process. Being in a state of denied confusion, Sherlock decided to test the theory as soon as possible.

"What are you eating, John?" Sherlock asked casually from his spot on the sofa.

"Peppermint." John replied simply, his eyes not leaving the computer screen.

"Give me one." Sherlock demands.

"Manners."

"Please?"

"Can't"

"Why?"

"None left."

Sherlock sighed in irritation and stared at John. He wasn't responding to the cold glare. Every so often John would roll the peppermint to one side of his mouth and then lick his lips. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor.

In one swift move, Sherlock rose from the sofa and took two elongated steps to John. John only hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes concentrating more on the keyboard than the computer screen at this point. Honestly, with his lack of typing skills, it was a wonder the man ran a blog.

Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands and brought their lips together. At first, John only kissed back for a moment, and then attempted to pull away, but Sherlock was insistent. Finally relenting, John ran his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock—who never got used to this part of their relationship—responded enthusiastically. The taste of peppermint lined the entirety of John's mouth. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and John pulled him closer.

Soon the two were lost in their snog. John's hands had found their way into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock was still holding John's head in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along John's jawline. Sherlock had to remind himself of what he needed to get away with, other than just tight trousers.

John and Sherlock separated, both men's pupils were blown wide and their faces were flushed. Each sported red lips and Sherlock's hair was unrulier than usual. They smiled at each other, but Sherlock just went back to the sofa and lay down.

It was only then that John realized the peppermint was gone from his mouth.

"Oh." John exhaled.

Sherlock smirked, and John responded with a grin.

"This means war." John said, making his way over to Sherlock.

* * *

**Oh gosh! I'm so sorry guys, I've been rather behind lately, this is the day 13 prompt, but yesterday I was at an orchestra. Today I was busy with Christmas stuff but tomorrow I should be able to catch up. **

**Hope you liked this chapter! I really didn't know what to do for it so, I hope you enjoy!**

**much love,**

**Bells**


	14. Chapter 14

Gingerbread

"I don't understand why I have to attend." Sherlock complained.

"Because Sherlock, you're the most important person in my life and I would like my parents to know who you are." John explained, noticing the spark of affection in Sherlock's eyes—contrary to his current attitude.

John's mother had phoned him the other day and had invited John (and by extension Sherlock) that they should (had to) come visit for dinner. Sherlock and John had already planned to spend Christmas alone together, so John decided to visit a couple of weeks before.

Thankfully, Mycroft lent them a car. A half-hour cab ride, or train ride, was not something Sherlock cared for.

"Is it just your parents?" Sherlock asked.

"Well…" John's voiced trailed off.

"How much of your family will be there."

"Undetermined."

"Lovely." Sherlock fumed.

It was dinner time at the Watson household and it was…noisy. Sherlock had never seen such a large congregation of small blonde headed children, much less a group that was so unruly. Initially, it was charming to see a handful of miniature John's running about, but the charm quickly washed away.

Sherlock kept close and quiet next to John, who was genuinely happy to be home. As John chatted with family members, Sherlock saw that all the children were running excitedly into a room. Sherlock looked to John, who was immersed in conversation with his uncle; decided he wasn't needed, and followed the children.

John turned away from his uncle to check up on Sherlock, only to find him not there. He scanned the room and again, no sign of Sherlock.

"Did you see where Sherlock went?" John asked his mum

"I believe he followed all of the children into the spare room." She said, pointing to an open door.

As John approached the room he had expected to hear the loudness of the children, but oddly there wasn't any. John entered the renovated spare room to see his mother's friend's children crowded around the small table, and more importantly crowded around Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring intently at the icing as he spread it on the gingerbread. Carefully, he and a little girl pressed the pieces together, creating a perfect house. She laughed and smiled and the rest of the children cheered. John even saw Sherlock grin a bit.

"Very nice." John commented from the doorway.

"Yes, well, it's simple engineering. Juvenile, really." Sherlock sniffed, but his eyes were bright.

They were finally back at 221b, John was making tea and Sherlock was updating his website. John sat down and smiled at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock inquired.

"You were great today." John said.

"I insulted your mother's sister."

"She's easily offended."

"You're not mad?" Sherlock looked confused.

"You were great with the children." John elaborated.

"Ah." Sherlock said, understanding.

Sherlock scooted closer to John and wrapped himself around the doctor's torso. This was their usual way of cuddling, with Sherlock situating himself around John and John dealing with the arrangement of limbs. They both relaxed against each other and John kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

"You smell like gingerbread." John smiled.

"Enjoy it; I will never do that ever again." Sherlock said into John's neck.

"Ever again?" John asked skeptically.

"Maybe one more time." Sherlock said after a minute, making them both laugh.


	15. Chapter 15

Presents

It was John's turn to pace. Christmas was drawing closer and closer and he had no idea what to get Sherlock. Body parts were out of the question, as were dangerous chemicals. John dragged a hand through his hair and thought. What do you get for a man who only believes in practicality?

Sherlock was panicking, although he would deny it if you asked him, he had no idea what to get John for Christmas. He knew it was customary for people who were close to exchange gifts that have meaning. Sherlock sighed; his gift had to show how much he cared. What do you get for a man who deserves everything?

Needless to say, the two were on edge around each other. Sherlock would stare more often than usual, and John would start to say something but catch himself and walk away. John was driving himself mad and Sherlock was driving everyone else mad. It was quite the spectacle.

Sherlock was sulking around town, looking at inane objects in shop windows. He had spent precious hours looking for the perfect gift. He had spent so long in one store that he was kicked out for not buying anything and wasting the time of employee's. Sherlock sat down on a park bench and did what he does best, he thought.

He thought about John, about how John was nice but not a pushover, and about how he was sturdy but gentle. The man was an enigma. A contradiction. Sherlock leaned back on the bench, he was being defeated by the most inane of enemies. _Sentiment._

As Sherlock thought, he remembered something vital. Why think of want, when _need _was so much more important.

"Stupid!" Sherlock hissed at himself.

John and Sherlock were at the morgue. A fresh cadaver of a woman suffered from ulcers was in and Sherlock had dibs on the stomach. As the genius was inspecting the body, Molly and John were talking.

"I still have no idea what to get him for Christmas." John sighed, staring at the man he loved.

"Have you got any ideas?" Molly asked, looking up from her paperwork.

"Yeah, but it's not like I could give him dead bodies for Christmas." John joked.

"Well, actually…" Molly gestured for John to lean in closer, and she whispered into his ear.

"Molly you're fantastic!" John rejoiced in a not-so-hushed tone. Sherlock looked up from the dead body and frowned at the pair. John just shrugged.

John woke up slowly and stretched, which was very complicated when one was being held down by the octopus that was Sherlock Holmes

"Happy Christmas, John." Sherlock said into the nape of John's neck.

"Happy Christmas to you too, now let me get up." John laughed as Sherlock only held on tighter.

After a bit of persuading, John and Sherlock were seated at the table, enjoying a simple breakfast. Sherlock looked excited, John was slightly scared.

"Would you like to open your gift?" Sherlock asked, practically bouncing out of his chair.

"Sure, but—" John started, but before he could finish Sherlock was already shoving a small box to his side of the table.

John looked at the neatly wrapped package, red paper with green ribbon. He looked up at Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow.

"Mrs. Hudson wrapped it." Sherlock admitted.

John nodded and picked up the box, which was about the size of his palm. He undid the ribbon and removed the paper. John recognized the next box to be that of a watch box. He smiled up at Sherlock and opened it.

"I had it made to fit only you, John. It's also waterproof and virtually indestructible. I know most of your watches always break when we're out chasing criminals and how you always like wearing them because you enjoy being on time and on the back there's an inscription and it says what I sometimes forget and I never mean to take advantage of you it's—" Sherlock's rant was cut off by John grabbing his face and kissing him.

John pulled away, "It's perfect Sherlock. You're perfect." John smiled and sat back into the chair.

John looked down at the silver watch and ran a finger over the engraving, "_You are my heart – SH"_ He put on the watch and looked up an exchanged grins with Sherlock.

"Your turn." John said, sliding an envelope towards Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed it with suspicion and opened it in one swift move. He removed the papers and his eyes got wide as he read.

"John," he breathed, "John, what…we're going…John!" Sherlock scrambled over to embrace John, reading the papers over his shoulder.

"This is the most amazing thing I have ever received and that's battling with the violin…thank you John!" He kissed John.

"Boys? Where are you going?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as she saw Sherlock running around packing his science equipment and John gathering their clothes.

"America!" Sherlock exclaimed, "John got us access to a body farm!" His eyes were bright.

Before Mrs. Hudson could ask, John elaborated, "Some colleges in America have several cadavers decomposing in various states. I couldn't find any here so…" John shrugged and smiled as Sherlock ran out of the flat to place the bags in the cab that was waiting

"Think of all the data! It really is Christmas!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing down the stairs.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed! It was hard thinking of what to get them for Christmas ._. hopefully i didn't mess it up.**

**Much love,**

**Bells!**


	16. Chapter 16

Fireplace

John returned from the shop, eager to be relieved of the bitter cold of the outside. His jacket did little to shield from the wind as it bit through to his skin. He clenched his jaw in an effort not to have his teeth chatter. As he unlocked the door and entered the flat, he was met with no warm embrace of a heated home. It was almost as cold as it was outside. Damn it all.

"Sherlock!" John called as he walked up the steps to their flat.

"John." Sherlock waved his hand in John's general direction as he entered.

"Why's it so bloody freezing?" John fumed.

"Experiment."

"An experiment?!" John said, exasperated, "You can't just turn off the heating in the middle of December, Sherlock!"

"Apparently I can."

"Not what I mean, turn on the heating."

"Can't."

"Why not?" John was losing his patience.

"Important data would be lost."

"Alright well, enjoy your data; I'm off to Greg's." John said, turning to leave, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"There's a blizzard coming, what if you get snowed in at Lestrade's?" Sherlock asked, a bit panicked at the thought of John leaving.

"Then at least I'll be snowed in someplace warm." John snapped, and removed himself from Sherlock's grip.

Sherlock sneered at his data. The experiment didn't matter anymore. He felt ill. Sherlock took the incomplete data and threw into the fireplace, and with that, he got an idea.

John was sitting in Lestrade's living area watching the football match when his phone vibrated.

**COME HOME – SH**

** Can you still see your breath? – JW**

** UNIMPORTANT. COME HOME. – SH**

** I'd rather not catch hypothermia in my own living room, thanks. – JW**

** PLEASE. – SH**

John stared at the screen and sighed. He apologized to Greg for the inconvenience and was able to catch a cab home. He really shouldn't give in so easily, but Sherlock rarely said please, so it was alright. Right?

John opened the door to the flat and was dissatisfied to feel that it was still cold. He sighed, maybe Sarah would let him sleep on her sofa again…

"John." Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, his voice was full of relief.

"Sherlock." John nodded, and started to climb the steps.

"The heating will be back on tomorrow. I promise." Sherlock said, looking at John with hesitant eyes. _Good, _thought John, _he knows he did wrong. _

As John ascended the steps, it incrementally got warmer. He entered the flat, and saw that Sherlock had started a fire, but in the fire place this time. Sherlock had also arranged their pillows and blankets in front of it.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said, coming up behind John and wrapping his arms around the shorter man's torso.

"Apology accepted," John smiled, turning around in Sherlock's arms and embracing him, "Now let's go get warmed up."


	17. Chapter 17

Stockings

It was a grim crime scene. A man lay dead underneath the Christmas tree, an overly cheerful present bow over the hole in his chest. Being that this wasn't the first body that had been found in such a manor, the Yard had decided to bring Sherlock in.

"Definitely cut out," Sherlock said, inspecting the body's chest, "with a recently sharpened hunting knife. Much like the other two bodies. Except this situation is different, the blood on the floor is smudged where the killer pivoted quickly. He is used to taking his time, setting up the body, making it nice. This time though, the dead man's wife was entering the house, he had to make a quick getaway, and he would have panicked and dropped the murder weapon. So where is it?" Sherlock looked around, expectantly.

"Well?" Anderson snapped.

"Please someone escort Anderson out, he is interrupting my train of thought." Sherlock sighed.

John smiled in spite of himself; Sherlock was being nicer—just as he had asked. Anderson left with a grunt and Sherlock resumed looking closely at everything in the living area. The detective was muttering madly to himself.

"This does not make sense! The killer would have _dropped _the knife, not taken it." Sherlock frowned.

"How do you know he dropped it?" John asked.

"There," Sherlock pointed to a spot next to the wall, "blood, splattered on the wall, a freshly bloodied knife was dropped right in front of this wall. Someone must have—" Sherlock's eyes went wide.

"Oh, brilliant. _Brilliant_." Sherlock breathed.

"What?" Lestrade asked, completely lost.

"You'll find that these have been a series of hits. Each person killed was married, yes?" Sherlock looked to Lestrade, who nodded in reply, Sherlock continued, "Yes, so as I was saying, a simple hit man situation. The wife came home, found the body, hid the knife, and called the police."

"So where's the murder weapon?" Lestrade inquired.

"It'd have to be somewhere within reach. The neighbors would have seen her come home; she would want to react with complete shock." Sherlock began pacing again.

"It'd have to be in that stocking, then, wouldn't it?" John piped up.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked at John, "What?"

"The Christmas stocking on the mantel, by the telephone." John pointed.

Sherlock walked over to the green sock hanging from the fireplace mantel. He stuck in a gloved hand, smiled, and pulled out a knife caked with dried blood.

"Fantastic." Sherlock said, staring at John.

In the end, they had the wife in interrogation and if all went well they would have the hired killer before Christmas. The pair was back at 221b, John was writing up the case when Sherlock handed him a cup of tea.

"You were fantastic. Today." Sherlock said, looking unsure at the words coming from his mouth.

"I learnt from the best." John smiled, looking up from his laptop at Sherlock.

"I wouldn't have figured it out." Sherlock admitted, "I wasn't even sure why there were colorful socks hanging from their mantel."

"Well, they aren't formal decorations I suppose. Usually they're for children. Fill them with treats for Christmas." John said, focusing back on his laptop.

"This was a different kind of treat I suppose." Sherlock quipped.

They met each other's eyes again, and shared a laugh.


	18. Chapter 18

Milk and Cookies

It was not an unknown fact that Sherlock rarely ate. John had to fight and persist for Sherlock to eat something before he quite literally passed out. Today was not an exception to such circumstance.

"You have to eat." John said, pushing a plate of rice noodles and spiced chicken towards Sherlock, who looked at it with disdain.

Sherlock frowned at him, "John. I am trying to solve this case. You know that—"

"Digestion slows thought process, yes, alright….fine." John sighed, defeated.

John cleaned the rest of the dinner up, not bothering to save it for later because Sherlock wouldn't eat until the robbery was completely solved. Sherlock sat in his trademark thinking pose on the couch, ignoring the world in favor of solving the crime. John looked at him from behind his laptop. Sherlock was paler than normal; he hadn't eaten in three days. John began to be filled with an iron determination to get the stubborn detective to consume something.

He knew just what to do.

John returned to 221b, after a quick trip to the store to get the required ingredients. Sherlock was now pacing back and forth in front of the wall of evidence. He didn't even acknowledge that John had returned. John doubted if Sherlock even noticed he was gone.

Sherlock was close to solving the case, he was tired and hungry. Maybe he shouldn't have skipped dinner. He shook his head and continued to think, smothering the need for sustenance. John was making entirely too much noise in the kitchen, Sherlock sneered to himself. Everything was too distracting, his mind was too loud and…what was that smell?

The flat began to be filled with a rich and sweet odor. Sherlock took a deep breath and his mouth began to water. Against his own mind's wishes, he crept into the kitchen. John was pulling cookies from the oven.

"What are those?" Sherlock asked.

"Just some chocolate cookies, surprised you didn't notice earlier." John replied innocently, knowing Sherlock's weakness for sweets.

"I was thinking." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the tray of steaming treats.

"You'll have to wait for them to cool, why don't you pour some milk?" John requested while transferring the chocolate cookies onto a plate. Sherlock obeyed silently, pouring two tall glasses of cold milk. He sat down at the table, waiting impatiently for John. The robbery could wait; it was obvious the thief—whoever he was—would strike again in two days.

John set down the plate of cookies and Sherlock grabbed on immediately. He bit into it and relished in the warm, melty sweetness of it. He was on his way to eating a third when John grabbed his hand.

"Slow down, you'll just vomit them later and this will all have been redundant." John said sternly, releasing Sherlock's hand and taking a cookie for himself.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock mumbled through a mouth full of cookie.

"Someone has to take care of you." John grinned, taking a sip of milk.

And so the two sat there and enjoyed their evening treat. Their ankles were intertwined underneath the table and everything was quite perfect. That is…until Sherlock had a revelation and spilled both glasses of milk and managed to knock John out of his chair.

But still, perfect.


	19. Chapter 19

Santa

"Sherlock, _no._" John hissed, grabbing Sherlock by the arm before he walked off.

"John! The criminal needs to be apprehended!" Sherlock insisted, trying to remove his arm from John's iron grip. It was quite a scene; other shoppers were looking at the two with raised eyebrows. It looked as though Sherlock was throwing a temper tantrum, which wasn't completely incorrect.

"No. Sherlock. Just this once, one time, listen to me. He's not going anywhere, it can wait." John was pleading with Sherlock now, his lips were set in a line as he stared up at the detective. Sherlock's shoulders sagged a fraction of an inch.

John weaved his fingers in between Sherlock's and led him to a bench in the shopping center where they would still have a clear view of the thief. Sherlock slumped against the bench and frowned at John.

"Why is this so important to you?" Sherlock said as he sneered at the holiday shoppers and low quality decorations. Sherlock hated shopping. He was only here for the case and now he couldn't even proceed with it.

"You can't just arrest Santa, Sherlock." John sighed, trying to remain calm.

"Why?" Sherlock whined—although he would deny it later.

"You're the genius, observe." John said, gesturing to the area in which Santa was receiving children on his lap. Sherlock saw the children bouncing in line, all waiting for the man pretending to be another fictional man. They seemed ecstatic at the prospect of being able to speak with the falsely jolly man. Sherlock could understand the appeal, sort of, a jovial man giving free presents to children who behaved admirably. He also understood that seeing Santa being taken under police custody would scare and confuse the children.

"It would…scare the children." Sherlock said, turning to John for confirmation.

"They need someone to believe in Sherlock, arresting Santa would ruin that." John said, looking in Sherlock's eyes for any signs of the idea clicking. There were none, but John was glad he made the effort.

The two sat in silence for a bit more, until Sherlock broke it (per usual), "Did you believe in Santa, as a child?"

"Yeah, till I was 7 and caught my Dad putting the presents under the tree." John replied, he squeezed Sherlock's hand and turned to him, "Did you?"

"No. Christmas was more of a…showcase for my mother. Display the house, the cook, and the children. None of the sentiment mattered." Sherlock said, staring straight ahead.

"You weren't trying to live out some sort of revenge against Santa Claus, then?" John smirked.

"Only slightly." Sherlock joked, kissing John on the temple.

At noon, Sherlock texted Lestrade that they had the man apprehended. Only, the last thing Lestrade pictured was Sherlock glaring down at a man half-dressed up as Santa, and John refraining from laughing.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock's just been put on the naughty list." John coughed out, earning a steeling glare from the man himself. Lestrade and John giggled together as Sherlock took it upon himself to put this "Santa" into handcuffs.


	20. Chapter 20

Sled

"This is ridiculous." John said, hauling the oval of plastic up the hill.

"A man's alibi depends on it John!" Sherlock shouted from the top of the landmark. When John finally made it up to Sherlock, the sled was removed from his hands and dropped onto the ground by Sherlock.

"Remind me again…why?" John huffed, trying to catch his breath.

"Because, the man's sister was murdered while he claimed to have slid down the hill with his nephew and I need to test to see the speed of a man and a child on a sled at this slope to see if the window of time he gave us would clear him of the murder or not." Sherlock said quickly, getting the sled in the proper position.

"But we are two men, and there is no child here." John stated.

"You're not exactly large, John." Sherlock said, not playing attention.

"Oi, watch it, or you'll have to sled home."

"That doesn't even make logical sense—"

"Shut up, Sherlock." John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock wisely did as he was told and positioned John and himself on the sled. John sat facing forwards, with Sherlock's legs on either side of him. It would have been rather comfortable if not for the freezing weather and the cold ground beneath them.

"Are you ready?" John said, ready to push them off.

"Wait. I—"Sherlock hesitated, "I've never done…"

"You've never sledded down a hill." John completed for him, Sherlock's silence confirming it.

"It's fun, I promise. Like riding in a car with no roof," John said, looking for the right words to comfort the stoic detective, "You can…hold onto me, extra tight, if you want."

No verbal response was received, but when Sherlock's arms appeared and wrapped around John's stomach, one wasn't needed. John pushed them off the top of the hill and soon the cold winter air was blowing past them.

John was struggling for breath as they made their descent, Sherlock's grip just kept constricting him further and further. Luckily, it wasn't a very large hill, so John was able to escape Sherlock's imitation of a python. He stepped off the sled and offered a hand to Sherlock

"That was. Interesting." Sherlock coughed, as he stumbled further into John.

"Did you get the data?" John asked.

"I'm afraid I was a bit distracted." Sherlock admitted, not looking at John.

"I can do it alone, while you observe." John offered.

"That would be better, yes. Thank you, John." Sherlock sniffed.

John laughed and kissed Sherlock's cheek before making his ascension back up the hill. Sherlock let out a shaky breath and deleted the sledding experience from his mind.


	21. Chapter 21

Snowman

John lay in bed and watched the sleeping consulting detective as he mused to himself. The sledding incident had reminded John that Sherlock had grown up in a very strict household. He assumed the Sherlock never really got to be a true child. His lips formed a tight line as he thought about how much Sherlock missed out on.

"I'll just have to fix that, then." John whispered into Sherlock's neck.

"Finish your eggs." John said, gesturing to Sherlock's full plate of breakfast.

"Why? I ate dinner last night." Sherlock complained, pushing the egg around his plate.

"Well, if you don't remember you burned off the risotto somewhere between dinner and now." John smirked, watching as Sherlock's lips threatened to twitch into a grin.

"Have you got a case?" John asked casually.

"No." Sherlock pouted.

"Good."

"Good? It's the very opposite actually, today will be perfectly boring."

"Why don't we go for a walk?" John suggested.

"A foot of snow fell last night, we'd freeze."

"Your optimism is smothering me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to go change in his day clothes. John took this as a yes and got the necessary equipment. Sherlock reentered the living area and was met by John helping him into his coat.

"John I can dress myself, thank you." Sherlock snapped, taking his scarf off the hook a bit too forcefully. John just shrugged and guided Sherlock out the door.

"Honestly, I don't understand your enthusiasm." Sherlock said as John pulled the door shut behind them.

"We're going to build a snowman." John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his automatically, and leading him down towards the park.

"This is ridiculous, John, I want to go home." Sherlock turned, but John tightened his grip.

"Are you afraid you can't do it?" John teased.

"No—" Sherlock protested, but John cut him off.

"Are you afraid I'll make a better one than you?" John was grinning now.

"My snowman will be better." Sherlock said, determined, releasing his hand from John's and walking a faster pace towards the park.

If you asked John, he would say that his snowman—a traditional 3 tier carrot nosed, deerstalker wearing one—was the better of the two. However, if you asked Sherlock, he would become extremely irritated and say that the judging system was extremely biased. He would claim that a small child had no appreciation for the intricate details in Sherlock's snow-skull.

It didn't really matter who's was best (clearly John's because let's face it, really Sherlock? A _snow skull_?" _), _Sherlock had had fun, and their snowmen—err man and skull—had stayed in the park until they were two undistinguishable piles of slush. And until they melted, every time John and Sherlock walked past the park they smiled at each other and walked a little closer together.


	22. Chapter 22

Jingle Bells

"What is that insufferable noise?!" Sherlock yelled; stomping out of the bedroom wrapped in his sheet. His brow was furrowed in irritation as he scanned the flat. John was sitting quietly at the table drinking a cup of tea.

"Bells." John answered simply, flipping the newspaper over.

"What? Where? Why?" Sherlock said, storming over to the window facing the street.

"A man ringing bells across the street for charity." John replied, crossing the room and observing the sight below. Across the street from their flat, a man in a thick winter jacket was ringing bells near a bucket. Pedestrians would quickly drop money into the bucket, and the man would in turn ring the bells with more vigor. Sherlock cringed.

"That has to cease." Sherlock decided.

"He'll be gone soon, I assume, why don't you just drown it out?" John asked, pulling Sherlock into an embrace. He attempted to distract Sherlock, but the man would not settle.

"No. It has to stop, _now._" Sherlock fumed, wriggling away from John.

"And I don't suppose you're going to ask him kindly to stop?" John sighed.

"Of course not. I have several plans."

"You cannot hurt the man, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, "I have three plans."

John regretted laughing at that, it only coaxed Sherlock into bad behavior, but oh well.

Twenty minutes later and the man had yet to cease ringing the bells. Sherlock kept pacing back and forth past the window trying to figure out how to get the man and his infernal bells out of an earshot.

"Would you help me with something?" Sherlock asked, kneeling next to John's chair.

John looked away from his book and entertained the idea before answering, "No."

"But John—"

"I can't hear you over the bells, sorry." John said, returning to his reading.

Sherlock huffed and went to go get dressed. He exited the flat and suddenly John was very worried. It didn't help that when several minutes later, the ringing abruptly stopped. John couldn't help his curiosity and went to look out the window. The man was, thankfully, not hurt in anyway, but was packing up the bucket of money and leaving.

Sherlock reentered the flat, holding up the ribbon of jingle bells. He had a look of immense satisfaction on his face. Sherlock supplied an answer for John's not yet asked question,

"It was simple really, I just knocked the man's sign over, and as he went to pick it up I took the bells and ran."

"Sherlock! You can't just steal—" John reprimanded, but was cut off.

"But, I deposited what I observed was more than enough in the donation jar before doing so. Everybody wins." Sherlock smiled, dumping the bells into his Stolen Items drawer.

"You donated to charity?" John asked.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock retorted, looking offended.

"No it's just. Nice," John smiled, gesturing for Sherlock to join him on the couch, "you're nice." He said as Sherlock curled into him.

The peace lasted until later that afternoon; Sherlock was experimenting when the bells started up again. He clenched his fists and left the flat again. This time he just stole the bells, and the ones after that, and again after that until the Stolen Items drawer was overflowing with jingle bells.


	23. Chapter 23

Carols

"_On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me—" _

"No." Sherlock said, shutting the door in the singers' faces.

"Sherlock?" John called from upstairs, "Who was that at the door?"

"Idiots." Sherlock called up.

* * *

"_Hark! The Herald Angels sing—"_

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted, slamming the door for the second time that day.

* * *

The knocking was insistent. Sherlock was getting next to no work done and John wasn't home. He had been dealing with the nasty Carolers since noon and was well past irritated. The knocking stopped, and Sherlock reveled in the silence, until it started again.

Sherlock nearly flew downstairs and opened the door, and before he could tell them to shut up and go away they began to sing,

"_Deck the halls—"_

"No!" Sherlock shouted at them, and they all stopped mid-note, "You!" Sherlock pointed at the only man in a group, "You're only singing because you're trying to sleep with her," Sherlock pointed at another, "Who is obviously not interested because she is a lesbian. You, yes you, the short one, are only out here singing because you have no family to go home to during Christmas because your stepfather is a drunk and your mother disregards your existence because you decided to go into art school. And you—"

John cleared his throat loudly before Sherlock could fire down another caroler. The group parted and John walked past them and pulled Sherlock into the flat, muttering quiet apologies to the singers.

Sherlock shrunk away from John, who looked at him with a mix of anger and disappointment.

"You can't just do that to people, Sherlock. Please, not again, if they knock, don't answer. Simple." John sighed, going into the kitchen to make some tea.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said quietly, and John hummed in acknowledgement.

* * *

"_He's as cuddly as a cactus, he's as slimy as an eel, Mister Grinch." _The Carolers sang loudly outside 221b. Sherlock was trying to concentrate on his experiment, but the singers had been at it for several minutes now. Singing the same song, over and over. One time in a round.

John looked up from his dinner at Sherlock, "Go apologize to them."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, stubbornly.

"Because obviously they are a group of very vengeful people. And you insulted them, and now both of us have to suffer." John said, trying to hold back his temper.

"_I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!" _Shouted one of the singers.

"Fine!" Sherlock relented, pushing himself violently up from his chair.

* * *

Sherlock finally did apologize under John's supervision with, "I am sorry for being annoyed with your off-key singing and snapping at you with the truth." John cringed, but at least Sherlock had apologized. In return, the carolers offered to sing them a private concert.

John politely refused and Sherlock ran back into the flat.


	24. Chapter 24

Music

John was fiddling with the stereo when Sherlock entered the living room. He walked up behind John and wrapped his long arms around the shorter man.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock mummured into John's neck.

"Trying to figure out the stereo to play some Christmas music, it is tomorrow, after all." John said, his brow furrowed in concentration. Why were there so many buttons?

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's inability to work with technology and started the music. Soft instrumentals began for "Silent Night". Sherlock smiled, the score for this song was brilliant on the violin. He began to sway gently with John.

John turned in his arms, "Care to dance?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled at him and took John's hand and placed the other on John's waist. They stepped together to the soft hum of the violin playing from the speakers. Sherlock pulled John closer until their bodies were flushed up against each other. The song ended but the two men continued to sway, until they abandoned that and met for a kiss.

The next song was in large contrast to the previous, sharp notes starting up a round of "Carol of the Bells". The two men laughed at the break in mood and separated lips.

"Want to know how I know the main violinist is left handed?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John laughed again at this, and pulled Sherlock onto the couch with him. They sat there for most of the night, Sherlock did most of the talking, but John initiated most of the kisses. Eventually, the CD ended, but neither man noticed.


	25. Chapter 25

Christmas

John yawned and stretched, which was extremely difficult when one was entangled with a consulting detective. Sherlock was already awake; he had been for a while, but watching John sleep was always relaxing—in the least creepy way as possible.

"Happy Christmas." John said quietly, smiling at Sherlock.

"And you, John." Sherlock replied, kissing John's forehead.

They enjoyed their morning in bed, both too stubborn to leave the warmth from under the covers. Reluctantly, they both got up and dressed, preparing for a day of being bothered by family and friends wanting to spend more time with them.

"We only have to deliver a few gifts; we'll be home as quickly as possible." John promised, as Sherlock complained for the fifth time.

* * *

Their day didn't go quite as planned. They ended being pulled into several different Christmas parties after people insisted they stay for a few drinks. Needless to say, Sherlock ended up slightly tipsy and John more than a little drunk. Eventually, Sherlock got them away from all their (John's) loud and overly cheerful friends.

Sherlock led a stumbling John up into the flat and flopped them both onto the couch with a lot less grace than he normally did. He pulled John into a comfortable cuddle, not caring they were both still in their shoes and day clothes.

"M'sorry." John mumbled into Sherlock's chest.

"Don't apologize. I had a lovely time."

"You hate," John hiccupped, "you hate people."

"Yes, but I love spending time with you." Sherlock said, carding his fingers through John's hair.

"Love you." John yawned.

"And I, you." Sherlock whispered to John, hugging him tighter as he fell asleep.

John's breathing evened out and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He never particularly enjoyed Christmas, but much like the rest of his life, John improved it.

"Happy Christmas." Sherlock said, before he himself drifted off to sleep.

* * *

...**and there we have it! 25 Days of Ficmas! I hope you all enjoyed each chapter. Thank you for all your lovely reviews and encouragement. You may not see me post something new for a bit, as I am crap with ideas, but if anyone does have an idea for a little drabble or hell, a full story, let me know!**

**Have a very happy Christmas! **

**Love,**

**Bells**


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